Human Remains
by disco biscuit
Summary: Bellatrix thinks she has been fatally injured. When she wakes up, she finds herself in the presence of an unlikely healer.


****

Human Remains

So this is where it ends. Eighty feet underground, in a steel tube hurtling through a wormhole in the dark. I always thought it would be so much more grand. 

I'm alone in the carriage, save for the heavy stench of urine and rotten newspaper. The seat where I lie is sticky. The thunder of the wheels on the track is suddenly frightening. Everything is frightening when you're dying. 

I've managed to make it this far; finding the Ministry's tube station, getting on with a hole in my side and more blood than colour on my dress, watching their defeated faces blur as the train slipped into the tunnel. But I still havn't escaped. You can't outrun death. I should have lain there and let the brat finish me off. The seats back there were at least comfortable, and not to mention more fragrant, than this rattling coffin. 

I shift slightly and let out a yelp. The blood is pouring unabated now, I dip gingerly to touch it and feel the lips of the wound smile against my palm. They are laughing scornfully at me; _get out of this one, Bella_. I rest my head back against the shuddering black window and watch my reflection in its opposite. I've never seen myself defeated - he's never allowed it to happen before. Not because he loved me, or because I was special to him, or any of those other delusions. I know that much. I was always sure how he _didn't_ feel, but never certain how he _did_. 

What would he think now, if he saw me through that glass? I try to push away the deeper question, the one I'm really asking: would he care? 

I shake my head and shut my eyes. On the brink of death and I'm still trying to gauge his approval. I should be doing what everyone else does, weeping for my family, cursing my enemies. Not playing these pointless teenage games in my head and chasing my own mind round in circles. A fuck is not 'I want you'. I tell myself this each morning when I wake up in his bed. Well, not tomorrow. I'm free of all that now. 

My vision blurs. I welcome oblivion like an old friend.

*

The light stings my eyes as I open them. The pale walls, the sunlight - oh -

"Am I in heaven?"

A high, cold laugh at my side answers the question. A question I could have answered myself, had I waited for my vision to clear. The room, though painted white, is scruffy with bare splintered boards. The square of sky in the window sheaths the sun in cloud. I feel stupid, childlike. I know there's no afterlife. And if there was, heaven certainly wouldn't be where I ended up. 

"What happened?" I ask, trying to sound in control again despite the curious floating sensation that grips my body. "I thought I was dead."

His usually expressionless face breaks into a sneer of amusement. 

"Some Muggle found you on a tube train and got you to a hospital. Luckily you were spotted by an informant before those fools could perform any of their filthy 'surgery'. You could have ruined yourself permanently and that would have been another follower wasted."

He pulls my blanket away and places a hand on the bare white flesh where the wound once was. All that remains is a tiny red scar, like a haircrack in a wall.

"I Healed your wound myself."

"Thank you, master."

He clicks his tongue in exasperation. "Do not say it. Show it." 

Wordlessly, still floating, not really paying attention to what I'm doing (I've done it a thousand times before, he's seen it all, and not just from me), I remove my underwear and throw it on the floor next to his discarded robe. He climbs on top, draws the covers over, I reach down to speed things along. His eyes are disinterested all the way through, though they slightly widen at his climax. This is always the way. I prefer the lights to be off so we're invisible, so I can imagine things are different. This room is too clear. There's nowhere to hide. 

My sob of misery surprises us both.

He looks into my face and I wish I had died on that train, I wish I was anywhere but here underneath that searching mind. Slowly, expertly, he runs his tongue along the track of my tear, from the corner of my eye to the corner of my mouth. His pale lips press against my own, his tongue finds its way in and we're kissing, and I'm crying and wishing this was the end of the line, that time couldn't travel past this point. 

All things must come to an end. He draws away, his mouth pulling gently on my bottom lip before it's released. Defiantly, I catch his eyes and hold them, willing an explanation, praying it will be what I want to hear. 

"Tom," I say. "Tom," I call him. 

He looks at me in sudden disgust, and any tenderness or understanding or whatever I could name it permanently erases from his face. Without a word, he picks up his robe and leaves the room. His footsteps vanish into the rest of the house, our bed left chilled as a tomb. 

I look outside. It's beginning to rain.


End file.
